


Five times John minded when Sherlock burst into his room (and one time he didn’t)

by katybar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Asexuality, First Time, John doesn't like hearing about Sherlock's mind palace, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Saint, Massage, Masturbation, Reichenbach, Sherlock has no sense of personal space, Sherlock is a git, Sherlock is not a tease, Sherlock might be catching on, a little anatomical knowledge goes a long way, ace!sherlock, black moods, but John isn't, but he is oblivious, in a good way, lots of talking, sexual!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katybar/pseuds/katybar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a very smart person, Sherlock has a hard time understanding the concept of privacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens is just weeks after John moves into the flat.  Dinner was Thai take-away, John watched a bit of crap telly while attempting to ignore the grimaces emanating from the couch, and made his goodnights.  Not twenty minutes later, his door flies open and Sherlock bursts in like a deranged jack out of his box, crying “John, a case, a nine at least, we need a ladder and your old army fatigues, come on John!”  Unfortunately he doesn’t leave like a jack on a spring, but heads straight for the wardrobe.

John’s laying on his back, a pillow propped under his head.  True, he had just been thinking about Sherlock, but the Sherlock in his head was a bit softer around the edges.  Less inclined to root through his wardrobe, flinging unacceptable disguises right and left, and more inclined to, well, John hadn’t exactly got to that  part yet, but the immediate Sherlock isn’t an improvement.

“John, we have to get there before -- oh,”  Sherlock goes wordless just for a moment, but recovers valiantly.

“Really, John, this is rather inconvenient.”

John hasn’t said anything so far, he’s simply impersonating a deer in the proverbial headlights, because, well, what do you say when your flatmate explodes into your room ready for murder and mayhem just as you’re getting started on a good wank?  Despite his years in the army, and the habits of stealth they imbued, John is unprepared for this particular scenario.  After opening and shutting his mouth a few times, he manages to croak out “there’s a door, Sherlock.  It’s a wooden thing on hinges that creates privacy.”

“It wasn’t locked,” states Sherlock.

“It doesn’t have a lock, and I don’t need to lock it, it’s the door to my room, Sherlock,” John starts with exasperation, but works his way up to a shout.

“Non sequitur,” huffs Sherlock.  “Evidently your reasoning is flawed.”  

John has been trying to argue and squirm himself under a blanket at the same time, but so far he has only succeeded in imprisoning his legs and jamming the duvet into his zip.  “Sherlock, would you please let me, just, I don’t know, just be, in peace, that would be lovely.”

“Fine,” Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “I’m sure the murderer won’t mind dallying for a few minutes so that you can finish up.”  He places his hands on the wall behind him and leans back onto them.  “Well, get on with it.  The cabbie will be here in, oh, one and a half minutes.  That should give you plenty of time.”  

John pauses in his contortions to consider Sherlock through slitted eyes.  The bastard appears to be serious.


	2. Chapter 2

After the first time, they’d had words.  Lots of words.  Most of them while John was decently bundled in about 5 layers of cotton and wool.  

John didn’t glimpse anything like understanding in Sherlock’s eyes, but Sherlock had at least promised to knock.

Everything was lovely for quite a while.  

John had nearly been skewered on a cross-bow bolt, had been wired with 30 pounds of semtex, had offered his life for Sherlock’s, once in well-considered earnest, and many times in the unthinking haste of the moment, had had  guns held to his head and monsters chase him in the night … and somewhere along the way, Sherlock had come to realize that all that wanking (really it was very quiet wanking, but what did John think, he was living in an army barracks?) had an object, and that that object perhaps didn’t mind, or was maybe even a bit flattered and, well, interested, and perhaps subject and object could come to an agreement.  

Although John had been right, that first night.  Sherlock considered 90 seconds to be plenty and to spare for an activity that he indulged in only rarely, and which tended to leave him dyspeptic afterwards.

Sherlock’s idea of a lovely evening with John involves putting up with his crap telly while wriggling his toes under John’s bum, drawing maps of John’s freckles, and interrogating John about the minutiae of his life, which Sherlock stores in boxes of cleanly cut index cards in the office of his mind palace.  Some 10 percent of them he also writes in careful longhand on actual physical cards, which he occasionally shuffles through when John is late from the clinic.

John’s idea of a lovely night with Sherlock contains all of the above plus tracing the lines of Sherlock’s collarbone under his silk shirt (especially the aubergine one, god John loves that one, he hadn’t even known they made shirts that color). This makes Sherlock smile and squint at him.  It includes John leaning his forehead into Sherlock’s back, right between his ridiculously sharp shoulder blades (and bonus points if he can get Sherlock to take that aubergine shirt off) and breathing softly along the gentle knobs of Sherlock’s spine.  This makes Sherlock shiver and tip his head back. It includes John circling Sherlock’s elongated frame with his powerful arms, hands splayed not to tickle, fingers coming to rest on Sherlock’s equally sharp hipbones.  This makes Sherlock take a deep breath and turn to bury his head in John’s shoulder.  And that’s where it ends, because John, despite his large and varied experience, has yet to chart a way forward that doesn’t involve Sherlock going cool and leaning away.  He has tried more, tried less, tried slow, tried slower, but no matter how promising the beginning, the end is frustratingly the same.

Although he doesn’t realize it yet, soon John will stop trying so damn hard, and then he’ll stop trying altogether and just stick with enjoying, that’s enough to be going on with, and they’ll both be the happier for it.

But for the moment, all this is a rather long-winded way to say that John’s wanking campaign has continued apace.  It’s less quiet than it used to be -- John’s walking around with a grin on his face, humming unfathomable tunes, and he can’t seem to get the stealth part working again -- but it’s completely discreet and ignorable, if one were inclined to ignore.  Which Sherlock is not.  

John doesn’t realize, of course he doesn’t, since he’s by definition behind the closed door of his room at this point in the proceedings, but Sherlock’s unreasonably sharp ears are tuned to the snick of the lube cap popping off, to the faint rattle of John’s flies, to the even fainter sighing and creaking of John’s cheap metal bed. Every time, his damn ears prick up and his nose twitches with the desire to follow the traces.  Like a sodding beagle, he thinks sourly, but already his foot is on the first step to John’s room.

After almost a week of this, Sherlock has reached his limit.  Yes, there’s a case, yes, it’s at least a seven, yes, he’s positively brimming with the need to go and do something -- these all seemed like perfectly reasonable reasons when he was in the process of bursting into John’s room.  

Once inside, he’s less sure of himself, because “Bloody fuck Sherlock!” John gasps, and buries himself in the duvet so fast that Sherlock wonders if he’s been practicing.  His violent burrowing sends the bottle of lube flying through a perfect spinning arc to shatter at Sherlock’s feet.  John goes bright red fading to aubergine around the edges, and Sherlock steps carefully away from the slippery mess.  

“I’ll get you a new one,” he offers in a conciliatory tone.

“Hardly the point, love,” John returns, but the heat is already fading from his voice.  

“There’s no rush, please, don’t feel constrained by my presence--”  

John rolls his eyes and hunches a bit smaller under the duvet.

“Problem?” inquires Sherlock coolly.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” John realizes he’s going to have to spell some things out for Sherlock.  “You can’t just come leaping in here with a case when I’m -- when this is -- when I need privacy.”

“Why not?” asked Sherlock, all innocent puzzlement.  “I’ve seen it before, you didn’t need privacy then.”

Well, that was true in its own way.  That first night.  It could have happened to anyone, too.  Anyone who had been shot in the desert, come damn near to bleeding out on the sand, spent months too wracked from injury and therapy to even think about additional activities, then months after that avoiding his therapist despite a stress disorder compounded by clinical depression, then even more months after that being cockblocked by his sodding fuckmonkey of a flatmate who interrupted, interceded, invited himself on, or, in one memorable case, sent an actual ninja armed with nunchucks to break up his date for the evening -- the same sodding fuckmonkey who, on that first night, pored over John’s body with his bloody magnifying glass, while the heat of his lips and his breath and the feathering of his lashes made John moan and squirm and goddamn writhe under him.  John had gotten himself about halfway out of his trousers before coming rather spectacularly but still technically in his pants and untouched by Sherlock.  At which Sherlock had smiled his brilliant smile as if that had been the plan all along, and started chattering about fingerprints on ice-cube trays.

Yep.  Could’ve happened to anyone.

Since then John’s been wanking morning and evening, and sometimes in the afternoon if he can get a bit of free time.  He is intensely and pathetically grateful to Sherlock for never bringing up the “coming in his pants” part again, and he doesn’t feel guilty now about appropriating Sherlock’s image for his personal pleasure, but still…

John wants to make a point about privacy, feels a need to set some boundaries and establish healthy communication about this, but fuck, as soon as he allowed himself to linger just for a moment on the memory of Sherlock’s breath on his skin and the faintest brush of his lashes and the moist heat of his tongue when he licked his lips, John is lost.  He is worse than lost.  The presence of those same lashes and lips and tongue in this room with him, even if they are gazing at him earnestly from over near the door, overwhelm his rational mind and he gives himself over to the movement, the push and pull, the warmth and tightness and building waves of pleasure, the incredible rightness of it all, until he tips happily giddily dizzy over the edge.

Sherlock has taken a step closer to him, is smiling shyly back at him, brushing a quick hand along his arm, and he hears Sherlock’s shouted “stay there, it’s only a 7 anyway” as the man himself clatters down the stairs. 


	3. Chapter 3

There are more words.  There are _boundaries_ and _expectations_ and _comfort levels_ , and besides that, John is catching on.  So the next time he hears a stray footfall, he all but leaps to attention, flies innocent, lube under the pillow.

“John John JOHN -- it’s a six at least, I realize that the world of competitive body-building is is a strange and unhealthy perversion of athleticism, and the bootleg Russian translation seems like a minute and bizarre point, but a fascinating case can emerge from -- ” Sherlock bursts through the door but stops short when he sees John getting up from the bed, eyes forward, head already nodding in agreement.

“Absolutely,” John agrees apropos of nothing he could understand, grabbing his jumper to cover the bulge in his trousers and heading for the door.  Where he collides painfully with Sherlock, who is standing, just standing there, his mouth pursed in concentration.

“Unless you--”

“No need,” John cuts in.  “I’m all yours.  What’s the case?”

“It’s really only a six, a sort of a cold six at that,” Sherlock essays, but John is already halfway down the stairs.

A disgruntled Sherlock hails a cab, and when the address has been given, he mutters “You got an email request from a Mr. Easy Wilson, bodybuilder and personal trainer, who complains that his hitherto profitable sinecure has been dissolved as of --”

“Hold on, *I* got an email request?  On my password-protected email in my password-protected blog on my password-protected laptop?” John isn’t really surprised, well, he’s not surprised at all, but there’s a strange atmosphere in the cab just now, and he hopes that a bit of wingeing will dissolve it.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers flatly.

John sighs, and Sherlock continues “as of this morning, when he found that the Grandsons of Russia Foundation had been disbanded overnight.  We’re meeting him at the cafe next door to his former place of employment.”

John takes a glance at the printed email in Sherlock’s hand, noting that the man spells his name in capitals, EZ, and ventures “American?”

“Obviously, John,” says Sherlock in a bored tone.  “A competition name.”

The rest of the short ride, and indeed most of the day, proceeds in prickly silence.  By the time they arrive back at the flat, Sherlock has provoked, insulted and/or caused the arrest of a handful of imposing-looking physical specimens, but John has done one better -- he has managed to rile, vex, flummox, and/or show up the world’s only consulting detective at nearly every turn, and it hasn’t earned him a single “brilliant” or “luminous”.  

So John eyes his flatmate warily as he starts water for tea, but Sherlock’s belligerence has deflated. He hovers about, not moving more than 5 feet from John but not closer than arm’s reach either, while John makes tea and does the crossword and tidies the kitchen.

Finally John sits himself with careful abandon on the sofa, runs through the options, and waits for Sherlock to settle. When everything is calm and he’s found a good episode with the ninth doctor, he creeps his hand even more casually towards Sherlock’s ankle.  Sherlock gives him a knowing look, but as John strokes the arch and circles the ever-sharp ankle bone, Sherlock’s eyes gradually drift shut.  He sits through an entire episode and into a second that way, letting John slip off his socks and absorbing separate massages to each toe, after which John moves on to squeezing heels, stroking insteps, and kneading arches.  Sherlock’s arches are beautiful of course, just as the rest of the man is, more soaring architecture than pedestrian transport, and John wishes he had a flannel and some warm water and maybe some oil, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to break the fragile spell reconciling them, so he just sits with Sherlock’s feet companionably in his lap until they are both drowsy.

It’s tempting to stay as long as Sherlock will have him on the narrow couch, but John can already feel his shoulder stiffening inside him, and he has a shift in the morning, so by midnight he makes to get up.  Sherlock rises as well, but when John turns toward the stairs, the detective tugs on his sleeve and asks, in a barely audible voice, “Stay with me?”

John blinks in surprise, savoring the sudden warmth flooding into his limbs.  “Always,” he answers, and follows Sherlock to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually did write up most of the case and meant to include it in the chapter .... but as I have never written casefic before, I didn't realize the sheer length of all that exposition, so I'll finish it up and include it as an out-take at some point.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock may think that John is a bit slow on the uptake, but John’s figured out a few things by now.  Since talking it out  and maintaining boundaries don’t seem to be getting him anywhere, he comes up with his own rules.

1\. Only when Sherlock is out of the flat, preferably on a case

2\. Confirmed sightings by multiple persons, including but not limited to Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, or the rest of their team.

2\. John has installed a lock on the inside of his door.  Of course it’s only operable when he’s actually in the room, but that’s fine, since being in the room is what’s getting him in trouble in the first place.

3\. Oh, and only do it when Sherlock is out of the flat.

He puts the lock on carefully and tells himself that he wouldn’t want to upset Mrs. Hudson with holes in her woodwork.  He sweeps up the bit of shavings and then scuffs over the floor to erase the evidence of sweeping.  

Sherlock doesn’t notice a thing, and the system works brilliantly until John gets sloppy.  

Which is to say, until Sherlock gets bored.

A bored Sherlock may be delightful.  One day, he may be want to meticulously paint a nearly-naked John in mud culled from various localities surrounding London -- the bits of sand gouging softly as they glide slickly over skin, the mud stiffening so that it’s difficult to fidget, wriggle, or squirm under Sherlock’s attentive ministrations -- then take careful notes as he rubs, washes, brushes, or breathes it off with equal care.  

Another day he may decide to acquire his first ever straight-edge razor and learn on John, and dear god, if you look up “erotic danger” in the dictionary, John is pretty sure all you’ll find is a picture of Sherlock guiding the cold blade over John’s outstretched throat.  It’s especially delightful because Sherlock compensates him for the few small cuts (“beginner’s nerves, John”) by licking the oozing blood delicately off John’s skin with the tip of his tongue.

But that’s run-of-the-mill, 18 hours without a case boredom.  A consulting detective plunged into the black depression of inactivity is an entirely different proposition.  For one thing, he never leaves the flat.  He is curled on the couch in the morning when John gets up, and he is there where John retires to that very detective’s own room.  Once, John wondered if Sherlock-in-love would be immune from these jagged pits of despair, and now he knows the answer.  John has prodded, encouraged, empathised, ignored, and all but tackled his unmoving arse, but Sherlock has responded only once, and that was to snarl venomously “I suppose you thought your prick was a sodding magic wand?”  The insult burns despite the fact that it doesn’t even make sense, but Sherlock snaps his mouth closed and pulls his robe tighter around his emphatic back.

Oh, and did we mention that he never leaves the flat?  The black mood came on him surprisingly quickly after the straight razor incident, and now John is seriously doubting the sanity of their arrangement -- he’s trying to survive a frenzy of lust for a man he can barely tolerate up close, so if Sherlock could just get his arse off the couch and out of the flat for ten minutes, that would be lovely, thank you.  Or seven, seven would be plenty too.

So when a tantalizing text from Greg promises more details in two hours and Sherlock’s black mood dissipates like so much smoke in a breeze, and the detective gives John a blithe wave and dear god actually states his intention to walk down to Speedy’s for a pick-me-up, John grabs his chance with both hands.  So to speak.  But that’s as far as he gets, because Sherlock, still marvelously attuned to John’s self-pleasuring ritual, comes bounding up the stairs after him, gives the knob a firm twist, and collides bodily with the wooden door.  There is an astonished silence from the outside of the door, then some tentative jiggling at the knob, then a sulky “never mind, it was probably only a five anyway.”  And then silence again.  

John is no consulting detective, but even he realizes that in the absence of footsteps heading down the stairs, Sherlock must be sitting, standing, or draping his long body over the landing.  He tests the waters with “Buggering shit,” and when that produces no response, he continues on with “Jesus fucking christ on a trampoline,” more softly but with great feeling.  He hears Sherlock bounce once on his sulky toes and blinks, a sudden picture in his head.  Not Jesus on a trampoline -- he might say it, but the image is beyond silly -- no, what he sees is Sherlock, his long limbs splaying, his impossible curls ricocheting, his one-size-too-tight aubergine shirt straining to the breaking point.

All right then.  But first he needs to get himself together.  Not entirely to his surprise, he finds that 90 seconds is indeed more time than he needs if he is methodical and goal-oriented.  Then it’s a simple job to do up his flies and grab his jacket. Lacking a swirling coat to pull Sherlock in his wake, he settles for a hand grasping biceps, and keeps his mouth shut when Sherlocks demands an explanation.

It’s a long silent cab ride, and by the time they get there, the streets have thinned and houses are surrounded by small gardens.  Inside, John pays for two lime green wristbands and exchanges his sensible walking shoes and Sherlock’s posher footwear for green-and-blue velcroed boots that clash with Sherlock’s wool suit.  He tugs a curious but recalcitrant Sherlock towards the array of in-ground trampolines.  

“Used to do this when I was a kid,” he says by way of explanation, stepping onto the first bed and springing a foot into the air.  It takes a few jumps to get the feel of it back, and then he bounces, lands sprawlingly on his back, flips to his front in the air, goes heels over head to his back again, and lays there looking up at Sherlock.

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” he says.  Sherlock gazes at him with deep distrust.  Finally he ventures a step onto the bed, bounces diffidently, and lands in a tangled heap at John’s side.  John grins and offers him a hand up.  Sherlock wobbles in his neon booties and watches as John bounds into the air, flips neatly, and lands on his feet on the next trampoline over.  “Apparently it’s like riding a bike,” he informs Sherlock.

“I don’t ride bicycles,” Sherlock replies with a frown.

“Not what I meant,” says John backwards from his upside-down trajectory.  He lands on his feet again, soars and hangs in the air for a second too long, thinks Sherlock, who flails to save him, only to land on the netting again.  John swan-dives cleanly onto his back.

“Stop worrying,” says John.  “I spent half my 13th year at the local swim club flipping off the high dive, and the other half jumping off walls and landing on my head.  It’s already been damaged to the extent possible.”

Sherlock mutters something that sounds like “obviously”.

“Short is helpful if you go out for gymnastics,” John adds. “Not that I did.  Got a growth spurt and that was the end of it.”    

After that John loses himself in the joy of the movement, flipping, twisting, spinning fast and slow and fast again.  It doesn’t hurt that he can see, from various upside down and sideways angles, Sherlock staring open-mouthed, though it could equally be John’s trampoline prowess or the idea of John having a growth spurt.  After several minutes of pandemonium, John flips to his back again and stays there, just bobbing softly and smiling rather foolishly.

An indignant huff rouses him again, and he pads over and motions Sherlock to roll up in a ball.  Sherlock glares at him, so John clarifies, “Just pretend it’s your thinking couch and you’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t --” Sherlock begins, but John springs lightly on the bed by way of teaching him a lesson.  Sherlock sprawls inelegantly, hands, feet, and curls going in ten different directions, and after that he wraps his arms around his knees and lets John bounce him this way and that.   

Once Sherlock relaxes a bit, John coaxes him to his feet again.  He’s still swaying woozily, so John presses his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder, stabilizing him.   Then he slides around to Sherlock’s back, one arm loosely around Sherlock’s chest, the other curled low on his belly in a lover’s embrace.  Holding the taller man steady, John bounces them up and down, gently at first, then high enough to make Sherlock catch his breath.

“Oy!” There’s a shout from the burly man who gave them the booties.  “You two!  Lovebirds!  One at a time on the trampoline!”   

John gives Sherlock a guilty grin, but holds on tighter.  They get two more bounces in.

“Yo, hobbit and curly-head, off the trampoline if you can’t follow the rules! There’s kids here.”

The long ride home is also silent.  Sherlock spends several minutes texting with Lestrade, then he pockets his phone and reaches hesitantly for somewhere in the vicinity of John’s left ear.  John’s looks up at him sideways and lets Sherlock’s hand fall to his shoulder, lets himself be pulled close, and smiles while Sherlock nuzzles at his hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that although there is lots of trampolining in London, there are no trampoline gyms like we have in the US. At least not that I could find on google maps. So, sorry about that...


	5. Chapter 5

Five days and three cases after the trampoline incident, Dimmock hands Sherlock an honest-to-god ten.  John watches, amused and not even trying to hide his pride, as Sherlock rampages through the the case, his very own bull in a candy shop.  As two days stretch into three and then four, John is sometimes with him, sometimes at the clinic, sometimes trying to urge tea and toast, and sometimes heading pointedly to bed in hopes that Sherlock will get a little rest.  Sherlock brushes at John like a moth fluttering too close to flame, and he doesn’t follow John anywhere.  Sherlock sleeps, John knows he must do somehow, but John hasn’t figured out how or where yet.  

Four days stretch into six, and John is convinced Sherlock is subsisting on the fumes from his nicotine patch adhesives, then into eight in a hellish all-night stake-out, then nine before the case is cracked at last.  

When they get home, just past sunset, Sherlock is stumbling and bleary eyed.  John has a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches in mind, but Sherlock snags him like a life-sized security blanket and drags him to the bedroom.  He divests John of his most of his clothing and sets his own wool suit jacket and trousers carefully on a chair back.  Then he pulls John into bed, wraps his long arms and one leg around John to prevent his escape, pulls the duvet over them both, and plunges deeply into sleep.  

John has slept, like a sane human being without a death wish, at least 5 hours a night since this case began.  So now he is both hungry and horny, but every time he tries to move, Sherlock clamps down tighter.  So John huffs a few times and resigns himself to sleeping.  

He wakes half a day later with an erection the approximate size and shape of Sherlock’s harpoon.  It doesn’t take long to figure out why.  Sherlock’s grip on him has loosened, but his hands are splayed one on John’s back, the other just on the curve of his arse.  His curls caress John’s shoulder, while his mouth, his brilliant sexy questing mouth, has fallen slightly open and his upper lip just grazes John’s nipple -- not enough to suckle, far too much to ignore.  When John stirs, when he even takes a deep breath, Sherlock’s lips and teeth press perfectly against the very hard peak there.   Sherlock’s legs, meanwhile, wrap around John’s, all heat and weight and the promise of gorgeous friction.  

And there is nothing that John can do about any of this.  

At least, nothing that he _will_ do. John is cursing himself already for a coward and a gentleman, but he will impale himself on his own prick before he would take advantage of Sherlock asleep.  It’s not a game of cat and mouse they’ve been playing, not angst and subterfuge and misunderstanding -- no, there have been enough words that John knows just exactly how unwelcome his advances would be.   

With his body going exactly nowhere, John’s thoughts have circled around again.  Yep, Sherlock’s hands still on his back, his mouth still pressed open into John’s chest, his long, lovely throat bared, John’s very pointy cock pushing into his stomach, almost bumping up against his ribcage, Sherlock’s thighs on his hips, oh god and warm and lovely, and his toes scrunched behind John’s knees.  

On the third go-around, John realizes he is rocking in time with his heartbeat.  He freezes and clenches his eyes shut.  Which doesn’t help, not really.  It’s all too easy to imagine Sherlock, suckling like a child against his chest, then biting down softly with his teeth,not enough to mark, just enough for a faint dusky bloom, to imagine the hand on his arse leaving five matching dusky fingerprints, the other hand curving around and between their bodies to stroke feather-soft and smoothly-gliding against the shaft of John’s cock, his third hand (and this is a both a relief and a hard blow, because mathematically, John knows he has to be dreaming) playing like a melody on the curve of John’s arse, his violinist’s fingers slipping painlessly inside him, seeking staccato glissando crescendo and finding vibrando vibrato and John’s entire body thrilling against Sherlock in pleasure and Sherlock  crooning to him softly, begging pleading entreating him _now, now, now, now, now_ and John opens his eyes.

The stillness of the room is so jarring that his stomach lurches.  Sherlock is pressed to his side, just as before, his two hands in identical positions, his legs still holding John’s captive, his mouth still quiet against John’s chest.  Only the high keening noise is new, and that would be John -- and a drop of pre-come smeared across Sherlock’s stomach.  

It’s the single slippery drop that decides the issue.  John’s strength is more than a match for a sleeping detective, and now he pushes Sherlock away in earnest.  Sherlock lets him go and closes in on himself.  John lays panting next to him, bereft and angry and very much alone.

After a hard look at the sleeping man beside him, John lays his hands on himself.  He’s soon wet with pre-come, so it’s a simple matter of push-pull-twist, and he makes no attempt to keep his voice gentle or his movements quiet.  Instead, he groans and cries out and shakes the bed as he comes, then notes the time grimly by his mobile.  

Sherlock sleeps on through two more carefully timed performances.  He wakes in the late afternoon to the snick of the lube as John removes the cap a floor above him.

There is no residual heat from John’s side of the bed, and the covers have been pulled smooth.  Sherlock sees that John has retrieved his clothes, but left 5 golden hairs tangled in the pillowcase.  A restless sleep, then.  He wants to spend longer here, deduce John down to the last scattered clue, but he hears the chattering of a zip and the creak of a bed above him and it propels him into his dressing gown and up the stairs. It’s been a long time, and now he realizes that waking alone in a smooth bed was like looking over the edge of an abyss.  Remembering the lock, he puts his shoulder to the door, and falls into the room when it opens easily.  

John is sitting cross-legged on the bed, an open bottle of lube and a spare pair of jeans unzipped next to him.  He nods in greeting.  “You slept three quarters of the day,” he says.  “I tried yelling and shaking, but this seems to be the only thing you’ll wake up for.”

Sherlock is dusting off his knees and doesn’t bother to answer, so John continues.  “Sit down, Sherlock.  We need to talk.”

Sherlock may not have received the ‘we need to talk’ ultimatum from a lifetime of girlfriends, but it still sounds ominous to him.  Not to mention the part about being tricked into coming up by the promise of something very different than what looks to be unfolding just now.

“All right then,” John temporizes, and Sherlock interrupts it with “If this is about privacy--” managing to make it sound like a dirty word while John breaks in with “it’s not” and more quietly “not exactly”.

“You removed the lock,” accuses Sherlock, and John sighs and says “because it wasn’t doing any good, Sherlock.”  

Sherlock glares and John sighs again.  “Look,” he begins more peaceably, “I know there are things you don’t like, and that’s, that’s good, that’s fine, no one’s blaming you or asking you to change--”

“No one?” grouses Sherlock.

“Fine, _I’m_ not blaming you and I’m sure as fuck not asking you to change, it’s just…” he trails off briefly, looks down at half-unfolded jeans and bottle of lube for inspiration, and continues softly “I’m not like that, there’s so much that I want, and it’s not fair to you…”

“It’s really _me_ you’re worried about?” Sherlock cuts in again bitingly.  “Fairness-wise?”

“Well-spotted,” mutters John ruefully.  “You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?  Yeah, sure, it’s me I’m worried about, all right.  Someday between the tea-making and the patching-up, you’re gonna forget that I exist, and what’s it gonna do to my self-image, to my bloody _self-esteem_ , when I pin you down and proceed to fuck you exactly senseless?”

“You’re not strong enough to--” Sherlock begins scornfully, but John outglares him with “Army, remember?  I’ll use your fucking dressing gown belt.  Yeah, it’s definitely me I’m worrying about.”  

The sarcastic venom pools silently between them until Sherlock does something he’s never done before, not with John, and that is apologise.  Or at least try to.  He gets only two syllables into “I’m sorry”.

“Don’t,” John snarls, “apologise.  Do it to Molly if you must, but don’t apologise to me for being who you are.”

“Fine,” returns Sherlock, regaining a bit of color.  “Am I allowed to ask a question?”

John allows a nod.

“You never felt the need to ... violate me before, did you?”

“No,” John answers shortly.

 “Why not?”

John barks out a laugh.  “Well, there was the magnifying glass, and the mud, and the razor, and the trampoline, and the sleeping with you…”

“And none of those involved fucking me either,” Sherlock pushes on relentlessly.

“No,” admits John.  “But that’s why I need this … this privacy.  It keeps you safe too, you know.”

“No, I _don’t_ know,” snaps Sherlock.  “ _You_ don’t keep me safe, I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself.  Did you possibly think you’d be the first lust-crazed boyfriend I’ve had to thwart?”

John looks like he’s been punched in the gut.  “I never meant--” he begins, but Sherlock beats him to it.  “Of course you didn’t.  You never do.”

When John’s face only sinks a bit deeper into an unhealthy greenish-gray, Sherlock relents. “But you _are_ the first, too.  You’re the first one that I _wanted_...” he falters, and then adds bitterly “Or do you suppose I follow all my boyfriends around like a goddamn puppy trying to catch them masturbating?”

John has no clue how Sherlock has managed even one other relationship, but instead he says “Wolf-hound, maybe.  I can’t think of anyone less like a puppy, Sherlock.” Despite himself, Sherlock’s mouth crooks into half a smile, and John wants so badly to forget everything, to surrender to momentary warmth that doesn’t solve anything.

But John is made of sterner stuff.

“You need to respect when I need privacy,” John stays the course, “just like I would respect your need for privacy,”  He realises it’s a mistake as soon as it’s out of his mouth, he’s just not sure why.  Fortunately Sherlock is more than happy to enlighten him.

“But I don’t, John.”

“Don’t what?” John answers with a frown. “Wank?”

Sherlock looks at him in consternation.  “Of course I do, you’d know that if you just observed.”

“I don’t observe because I don’t want to know,” huffs John, but Sherlock continues without a break, “the first Tuesday of every month.  It’s rare that there a case early in the morning on Tuesday.”

“Right,” says John flatly.

“Once a month is probably more than required, but I believe it better to err on the side of efficiency.  More than six or seven weeks can lead to unpredictable results.”

“Sorry, what?”

“How do you think I ended up with boyfriends?” Sherlock asks, cocking an eyebrow at John.  When John blanches, he pouts visibly and adds “not all of them, John.   In any case, forty-five seconds of effort seems a small price for a peaceful month.  You, as I have noted before, are sadly inefficient.  An average of 8 minutes and 23 seconds inefficient. And a dissatisfyingly large coefficient of variation as well.”

John has checked out of this conversation right about the time the statistical analysis began, which seems preferable to melting into the flooring in a puddle of mortification.  That’s why his response time is woefully lacking when Sherlock undoes the contentious dressing gown belt and pushes the black silk pants partway down his slender hips, saying “what I _don’t_ do, since you asked, is need privacy.” John knows he should say something, really he does, he knows he should stop Sherlock, but damn, they’ve been lovers -- and _yes_ he’ll use that word if he bloody well wants to -- for weeks, and he has yet to lay eyes on some parts of Sherlock.  Well, mainly this part.  He wishes Sherlock would take the pants off so he could stare properly, but something is better than nothing, yeah?  He gets a glimpse of curling ginger-brown hair, and his fingers itch to bury themselves in it.

Sherlock’s cock is long and lanky, no surprise there, snugly smooth inside the foreskin, and not remotely aroused.  As John watches, Sherlock begins to count, slow and measured.  By 10, his cock is twitching in his hand, by 20 it has filled out, by 35 John sees that his pupils dilate slightly and his eyes lose their sharp focus.  It’s the only erotic thing about this whole mess.  But Sherlock is already on to 45, and then his body tenses, his breathing becomes, finally, harsh, and by 51 he is tucking himself away again.

Sherlock smiles at John sardonically, and John realizes he is breathing harder than the detective.  Much harder. “Got  a little off your count, then?” John manages.

“Extenuating circumstances,” Sherlock replies easily.

John can’t help it, he has to touch Sherlock, so he grasps one sharp wrist and makes a show of counting his pulse. It is absolutely steady and normal.  “Why even do it--” he begins.

“I told you, John, more than once in a month is completely redundant.  I just wanted you to understand.”

“All right,” says John.  “That’s -- that’s fine. You can take care of yourself and you don’t want anything.  Just.  Where does that leave me?”  John fights the ridiculous feeling that he’s about to burst into tears, and he hasn’t done that since his crush broke up with him during maths in the second form.

“I never said I didn’t want anything, John.  If you expended as much effort listening and observing as you do wanking, you’d know that.”  John expression darkens still further, and Sherlock hesitates, unsure where he went wrong.  Finally he decides on “ah, you need … validation.” He says the word as if reading from a web search.  

“No,” John protests unconvincingly.

But Sherlock’s eyes have gone unfocussed again.  This time it’s not erotic, but damn if it isn’t breathtaking all the same.  Slowly his eyes refocus on John’s face. “I _do_ want, John.  I do, and I can’t tell you what I want because I don’t know, but you are … you are the first person who ever gave me the time to realize there _was_ something I wanted.  You’re not keeping me safe, really you’re not -- but you are … you have … something I want, you’ve transported me to a different existence, a place where things grow sideways and colors are different and, and, all the rules are changed --”

John is pretty sure his mouth is just hanging open.  A place where things grow sideways?  

Sherlock makes an annoyed face and says “it’s a metaphor, John.  Like my mind palace.  Like you’ve given it legs and walked it into a new universe.”

John nods.  He’s never been entirely comfortable talking about Sherlock’s mind palace, and this doesn’t seem like a good time to start.  

“You are an astounding person, John Watson,” Sherlock informs him earnestly, which is hardly fair, since John is still pretty steamed with him.  

“And I am sorry, not for who I am, but sorry for how it affects you all the same.”

John shakes his head, too tired to fight about apologies.

“And I still wish you’d outgrow your victorian upbringing.”

“I’m not an exhibitionist, Sherlock,” John says doggedly, and he is astonished to see real hurt, deep disappointment, in Sherlock’s eyes.

“And I don’t want a show,” Sherlock manages in a barely neutral voice.  “I love you,” he adds, as if that explains something.  When John doesn’t move, Sherlock slowly lowers his forehead to John’s shoulder, then slots himself behind John and tips them onto the bed.   His lean body curls around John protectively and they are quiet for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a blank door in a nondescript neighborhood in a forgettable exurb, and Sherlock doesn’t even want to know how or why Mycroft chose this place.  All of his energy is focussed on the man that he has been promised he will find on the third floor.  Despite the reams of data he has meticulously collected and preserved on the subject on John Watson, M.D., Captain, and Combat Doctor, he finds himself unable to predict how John will react to his return from the dead.  His mind won’t frame even the most rudimentary deduction.  He is, in fact, desperate for this part to be over, desperate to simply _be_ with John.

For that matter, he doesn’t know what Mycroft has told John or whether John expects him at all. A love of drama is a fine thing in principle, he thinks, but nevertheless he sloughs off at least the mannerisms of his disguise as he walks through the dingy hall.

Moving forward gets harder rather than easier, but finally he is at the door, the key fitting neatly, the knob turning scratchily in his hand.  He steps quietly into the dusty room, sees John look up wearily from the armchair pushed against one wall, obviously expecting one of Mycroft’s associates.  In a moment, Sherlock takes in the hunch of his shoulders and scrabbling of his hand.

For several seconds the two men just stare at each other.  

John doesn’t move, but his scrabbling hand gentles.

His face is gone completely white.

“Oh thank god,” he breathes finally, and his voice releases Sherlock to move.  Quickly, he covers the few steps between them and tugs John up and brings his still-fluttering hand to his (whole smooth unbroken) forehead.  John’s other hand follows and for a while he simply probes at Sherlock’s skull.  His fingers beat a repetitive tattoo over Sherlock’s eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, the socket of the eye, his cheekbone, and back to his temple again.  Then he grasps convulsively at Sherlock’s hands and brings them to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, palms, and fingertips.  Gently, Sherlock cradles John’s face and guides him to where he knows John really wants to be, his mouth to Sherlock’s temple.  It’s all the invitation John needs.  He examines the side of Sherlock’s face with the barest press of his lips, and then again with the tip of his tongue.  Sherlock hopes that John is reassuring himself using the sensitive skin of his lips and tongue.  It’s hard to tell though because John’s tears are falling silently on his face and Sherlock finds it hard to breathe.

Finally John takes a half a step back and chokes out “why are you here?” and Sherlock finds it even harder to breathe.  

“I had to come,” he whispers at last.  

“And Mycroft just, what? Bloody let you?” demands John.

“I threatened to throw a tantrum in the street in front of Scotland Yard if he didn’t,” Sherlock admits with a bit of bravado.

John glares, very much the drill sergeant now.  His hands are rock solid, his eyes like bayonets.  “Oh, that would have been brilliant.  How many of us would you have risked for that little stunt?”

It’s a rhetorical question, Sherlock certainly hopes it is, but when John doesn’t relent, he chokes out “you and Mrs. Hudson and Greg”, and when John still glares, he clarifies “three of you” in a whisper, as if John might not be capable of adding.

“And you had to come,” repeats John mercilessly.

Sherlock can’t stand it any more, and words rush out of him.  “I had to come, John.  You were, you sounded … how could I just lay there and do nothing, you were hysterical, John.  I’ve never heard … And there was nothing I could do.   I had to come.  I had to know you were all right.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John cuts him off finally.  “I had a part to play, just like you did.  We’ve been over all of this.  There’s a plan, yeah?”

“I know, I know that, but.  There should have been a signal, a safeword, something…”

Finally a glint of amusement breaks through John’s anger, and he says softly, “something with fewer syllables than ‘Vatican Cameos’?”

Sherlock flinches at the old argument, but John’s mouth turns up and he is almost giggling and Sherlock is suddenly so happy it is sublime.  

“It’s only for an hour, John.  Then the plan goes on.  You go back to Mrs. Hudson and the funeral and make your appearance in therapy.”

John nods and finishes, “one week and then I join you, I know.”

Sherlock nods as well and they fall silent, until Sherlock adds, “It was truly impressive, John.  Your … reaction, I mean.”

“Yes, well,” John begins, then colors a bit and says softly, “it wasn’t as much acting as you might think.”

“You knew that I was breathing,” protests Sherlock.

“Of course,” answers John.  “But that didn’t prove anything, did it?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock says “you called me love, and gorgeous, and brilliant.”

“Nothing I haven’t said before,”

“But not at that volume,” answers Sherlock.

“No,” agrees John, “not at that volume.  That plus the nightmares I’ll no doubt have, there won’t be any trouble convincing a therapist.”

“But you’ve seen me, John.  I’m fine.  It’s all fine.  You don’t need to have nightmares.”

John snorts.  “I don’t think that’s the way the subconscious works, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “Mine does,” he states emphatically, adding  “Yours is not very efficient,” and immediately looks stricken.  “I didn’t mean that,” he tries to cover, but John rolls his eyes.  

“Yes you did,” says John, “and you’re right, you bloody idiot.  A stress disorder is highly inefficient.”

Sherlock blushes, but continues stubbornly, “Your eyes and your lips and your tongue know that I’m fine, John.  Let them handle your subconscious.”

They continue staring at each other a bit awkwardly.  What do you say when you’ve just faked your own violent death and are meant to be gone?  Or when you’ve just declared your undying love to a soon-to-be corpse at the top of your lungs in front of god knows who? Eventually, John asks, “How secure is this place, according to Mycroft?”

“Very,” answers Sherlock.

“And how much time do we have?” continues John.

“Forty-six minutes,” answers Sherlock automatically, and when John frowns at him, he pulls out his mobile and clarifies “46 minutes and 25 seconds.”

The frown dissipates and John turns his back on Sherlock.  He saunters back to the armchair and sits nonchalantly, then looks up at Sherlock through golden lashes.  “Fine,” he says quietly.  “That should be enough.”

Sherlock takes a sharp breath, wondering if this is going where it seems to be going.

“I’ve already been on exhibit plenty today,” continues John intently.

Slowly, Sherlock answers “and I’m not looking for a show, John.”

John smiles encouragingly at him. “Under the circumstances, I didn’t think to bring the lube…” he says, but his hand moves to his zip all the same.  The small metal teeth vibrate in Sherlock’s ears, and then John is shoving his trousers and pants down around his thighs.  His cock spills out, fluid and softly cocooned, and Sherlock takes a step closer.  John touches the head, strokes the foreskin lightly up and down, his eyes flutter shut and then open again, and he fixes on Sherlock. “But you have to talk to me,” he says, his voice low and rasping already.  

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth a few times before he can bring himself to say the words, “just what you like, John, whatever you like,” but John shakes his head impishly.  “Oh no,” he smiles, “you’ve been spying on me for weeks now. Sodding Sherlock Mr. Fucking Brilliance Himself Holmes surely has some ideas.  I can wait, love”  He demonstrates this by going into a sort of holding pattern with the stroking.

Sherlock takes another step closer.  He is indeed desperate to see, so he chokes out “push it back.”

“Full sentences, love.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then another, then all in one go, “Push back the foreskin so I can see the glans.”  When John takes his time, he adds “please.”

John has lost his breath but catches it back again, and he obliges by pulling the foreskin this way and that, revealing quick glimpses of the head that Sherlock pieces together in his mind.  Gradually, leisurely, his cock begins to thicken, pulsing slightly in his hand, the foreskin slipping back and down and revealing more and more.  Sherlock stares mesmerized.

“Anything else, love?” John murmurs.

“The frenulum,” Sherlock mouths greedily.  “Just touch it with your thumb.  That’s it, up and down.  A little pressure.”  John removes his hand and Sherlock frowns, but John just brings his fingers to his mouth and curls his flicking tongue around them before returning them to their place.  

“Now the frenular vein,” continues Sherlock.  “Stroke it lightly towards the base.” John blinks bemusedly at Sherlock’s terminology, but he is a doctor after all.  He moves as precisely as he can, fingering the small vein which pushes back at him.  “And the anastomosis?” he asks in a teasing voice, and Sherlock crowds in immediately with “god yes.”

For a long time, Sherlock says nothing more, just rivets his eyes on John’s hand, which moves delicately between the two veins.  John’s breath comes faster and deeper, Sherlock looks at him as if he doesn’t quite remember what’s going on.  “Sherlock, fuck, just… this is lovely, just…” and Sherlock’s eyes focus and he murmurs “your mouth… lick your fingers again,” and watches raggedly as John’s soft pink tongue swirls around his own fingers.  When they are slickly wet, Sherlock says “now the raphe, slide your fingers down and back, slower John, slower,” and John reins himself in visibly, panting as he struggles to to control his own hand.  “Your other hand,” continues Sherlock.  “take your sack, just hold it, let your bollocks roll between your fingers.”  His own fingers curl in demonstration.  John does, and his head tips back as a low keening escapes his throat. He pulls his swollen lower lip between his teeth and Sherlock says “No, no, not that, I need to hear you, please let me hear you, please John,” biting his own lip, and John releases his with a sigh that becomes a moan.  At the sound, Sherlock surges forward, wraps both arms around John’s calves, and nestles his face into the clothing bunched at his knees.  They stay like that for a minute, two minutes, breathing together in a slowing rhythm.  “This” says John at last, his voice thick with emotion and longing.

Sherlock gazes into his face and waits.

“I was sitting here so fucking alone,  on infinite replay of you, falling out of the sky, and underneath that a voice whispering all the things I should have done, and now I would maybe never get to do.”

“This?” asks Sherlock.

“Yes,” says John.  “And other things too.  I wanted to take you on walks in cemeteries.  Make you watch all 12 doctors.  Get you a beehive so you could write a monograph about urban apiology.  Keep bickering with you until we were both 80 years old and stooped and gray,” John’s voice has gone very quiet, his hand almost still, his eyes preternaturally calm and level.  

“Yes,” breathes Sherlock, and John shudders, his eyes falling closed, his lips repeating “yes” and then he straightens again, and says “More, love,” and Sherlock repeats “more, yes, more.”  John smiles at him, the imp back in place, and teases “full sentences, love,” but Sherlock is beyond full sentences.  His eyes are wide and dark, his breathing labored, his tongue working over his lips, his hands gripping John convulsively behind the knees.  So John takes pity on him.  His hand moves at its own pace, petting and stroking and twisting and swirling, his thighs pushing hard outward against Sherlock’s arms, his hips rocking his body and Sherlock’s like a lullaby.  “So beautiful,” he murmurs to Sherlock.  “So gorgeous.  So lovely.”  The rhythm and the friction carry him along easily, pleasure building in waves, spreading luminous joy, and Sherlock finds his voice again and says “Now John” and John allows himself to fall, already caught and held safe, cherished and treasured and filled with light.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is how I think Reichenbach should have gone.

Sherlock has promised (John made him swear twice, once on the skull and again on his own microscope) that he will lay low and won’t get himself killed before John can join him.  He wonders what it means, that he won’t ask Sherlock to swear on the Strad.  

The flat is bugged, John has to assume that at least, so communicating his message to Mrs. Hudson takes some creativity.  Mycroft can say what he likes, and no doubt will, but John knows that England would fall before Mrs. Hudson would betray Sherlock, and he won’t tolerate the thought of her losing both of them in the same week.  

The funeral is sparsely attended and quickly done.  John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Greg watch each other warily, and Mycroft twirls his brolly with the put-upon look of a man whose constant worry has finally been justified.  The rest of Lestrade’s team stays away, and it’s just as well, since John’s subconscious would be quite willing to brush up on his hand-to-hand combat with any or all of them at once.  

Updates to John’s blog are increasingly erratic, poorly spelled, and filled with emotional punctuation.  John gives his message at the no doubt also bugged gravestone and makes his appointment with Ella, plus a followup he doesn’t intend to keep three days later.  

Then he packs a few things in his normal bag, not much really, just the straight razor, a packet of tea, the new bottle of lube from Sherlock, and the aubergine shirt, gets roaringly drunk with Greg, sets out in a long, stumbling walk home, and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an outtake someday, when I'm done writing it...


End file.
